


Unacceptable

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Blackmail, M/M, Protective Sherlock, Secrets, marital fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The honeymoon is well and truly over. Sherlock has a new case and he's keeping details a secret from John. When he tries to distract John from his concern over this with sex, John loses his temper. It's their first post-wedding fight; and it's going to hurt before it makes them stronger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unacceptable

**Author's Note:**

> A new story arc for Unkissed coming up...
> 
> Note: Aaargh! SO ANNOYED. I've just realised the last paragraph didn't get copied in. Apologies to the 600 or so who've already read the fic. There's now a tidier final para. :/

The honeymoon was well and truly over.

Sherlock and John had been home from Spain for a month now, and back in the thick of casework, the clinic, the Met and life as usual. For three of those four weeks there continued to be physical affection and pet names and inappropriate laughter at crime scenes.

The fourth week, Sherlock had got his consulting snout into the thick of something nasty and had been gone all hours pursuing it. He came home – sometimes in the wee hours – teeth-grindingly agitated. He slept poorly. He was waspish and, when John called him sweetheart on the fifth day, Sherlock told him not to be inane. “I’m working. Save it.”

John blinked at him. “Fine, Sherlock. Consider it saved for a special occasion. Did you want to tell me what you’re working on, or are you saving that for a special occasion too?”

Sherlock waved his hand. “It’s nothing.”

“Yes. I can see that. One of those big, stinky kinds of nothings that’ll go away if we just open the window to let the fresh air in.”

Sherlock shot him a daggered glare. “Do you imagine that metaphor made any kind of sense, John?”

John sighed. “No. Forget it. When you decide to share whatever’s put a bug up your arse, text me. I’ll be at the pub.”

“Oh well done, John. The pub. An excellent refuge when you’re in a sulk. Perhaps you’ll see your sister there.”

John, in the midst of getting his coat, turned a dark glare on his husband. “What’s Harry got to do with anything?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock sniped back, then took a breath. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and seemed to lose all ire. “John. Stay home.”

“Look, you’re in a mood, I can see that. I’ll grab a pint, you can have some thinking time and when I get home we can… have a shower or something. Make a little ‘us’ time.”

Sherlock appeared on the verge of saying something sardonic about ‘us time’ but seemed to think better of it. He sighed and stepped towards John.

“We could have some ‘us time’ now, if you like.”

John hesitated, but then he pulled his coat on. “I’m not… not really in the mood right now. I need a walk at least.”

Again, Sherlock appeared to be biting down on a snarky response in favour of getting closer to John. He slid his hands around John’s waist and nuzzled at his hairline. “You could walk later.” He kissed John’s temple, his cheek, worked his way around to lip warmly at John’s ear. “I’d love to take you to bed. It’s been more than a week. I want to make you come. I want to see it.” He suckled briefly on John's earlobe.

John jerked away from him. “Don’t you do that, Sherlock. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Sherlock blinked at him, shocked. “Do what?”

“Use sex to distract me.”

Now Sherlock looked offended. “Is that what it is now?” he said coldly, “When I offer you affection you decide it’s me manipulating you?”

“Stop it,” John snapped, “Stop acting like I don’t know you. Like I don’t know how you operate when you think you’re trying to protect me. We’re not all geniuses in this house, but don’t you dare for a single second think that I don’t know when you are pulling that crap on me. I know when you’re keeping things from me. I know when they’re big things. And all this week, you’ve been getting deeper and deeper into something that you won’t talk with me about. And you know, fine. It’s one of your standard work modes, to squirrel into everything until you have your facts assembled, and to form your hypotheses and plans without me. I thought we were done with that, but apparently not.”

Sherlock glared, but the glare had very little effect, and that was mostly because Sherlock knew that John was absolutely right.

“So, Sherlock, yes, I know what you’re up to but not why. And I don’t think I can express to you how…” and for the first time John’s voice caught, scratchy with emotion, “… _wretched_ it makes me feel, to have you take something that’s so important to us and try to use it to distract me from what’s going on.”

John’s face was, as always, a moving tapestry of meaning, and watching it – anger, sorrow, regret, hurt, disappointment, fear – broke things down in Sherlock that words would never have dented.

“John. Please. I’m sorry.”

John almost winced at that. “Sorry enough to tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t.”

“Right. Well. I’m off for my walk then. Might do the pub after all. Text me when you want to talk. Or call me when I can come home.”

Sherlock, horrified, grabbed at John’s wrist. “What? John, no. You can’t leave…”

“I’m not leaving, Sherlock. Stop panicking.” John’s expression softened a little. “Sweetheart, I am not walking out, but right now I can’t stay here with you keeping secrets from me. And I know that you are. Big, ugly, nasty secrets.” Then John, alarmed, laid his hands on Sherlock’s chest, and leaned in close. “Shh, baby. Ssh. Breathe. Breathe. I’m not leaving you. Breathe, baby. You’re hyperventilating, and that’s got to stop. Come on.”

John gathered Sherlock in his arms but Sherlock didn’t relax into the embrace, as much as he wanted to. Hands clenched, he drew himself into a tense curl, forehead pressed into John’s shoulder, and tried to breathe.

_What is wrong with me?_

Well, he knew the answer to that one.

_I am lying to John and he knows it. I used something precious to compound the lie. You, Sherlock William Holmes, are an utter bastard and already make your wedding vows a lie._

And there was his husband, running soothing hands across his back, stroking through his scalp, saying reassuring things. Calling him sweet names.

Sherlock took a steadying breath, and the raggedness of it startled even him.

“Please, sweetpea,” John was saying, “I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s going on. I know you can’t have meant what you just did. So please. Explain it. Let me help. Sweetheart. Honeybee, please.”

Sherlock drew away from John and stood tall. “You’re right. Of course. I am keeping something from you. I wanted to distract you with… with something... precious. Because I don’t want this thing to touch you. Because I love you.” He swallowed. “But I can’t talk to you about the case.”

John regarded him with concern and still a little anger. “All right then, Sherlock. Sweetheart. I think... I can appreciate that your intentions were... good. But it can't work like that. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“No. It’s…”

“It’s what? Too dangerous?”

“That. And too ugly.”

John stepped forward again, to hold Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Is someone blackmailing you? Because… Sherlock, you must know by now, there is absolutely nothing I could learn about you that would change my mind about you.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, wanting nothing more than to lean into that touch, but not allowing himself the luxury, “It’s not me. But… I don’t know how to keep you safe from this. Once I know, I can tell you. But…”

“No.” The word was a short, sharp denial-and-command as John stepped away from him, his face once more a kaleidoscope of expressions, though the fear was more prominent this time. His John, who was afraid of nothing, except one thing….

“No, you fucking don’t, Sherlock,” John snapped, “You don’t do that to us again. The last time you kept important things from me, trying to keep me safe, you… _died_. And yes, I _know_ you didn’t really, but that’s not what I saw. It’s not what I _felt_. You kept secrets from me that affected both of us, and I watched you _fall_ and I had your blood all over my hands, even though I know now it wasn’t your blood, and I know the way it really happened. But it felt like it. _Feels_ like it. You can’t do that to me again. You promised.” John’s voice was shaking in rage and distress.

Sherlock was stricken. “I know I did,” he said, “But…”

“You can’t keep me safe with secrets like that, Sherlock,” John snarled, “All you can do is hurt me, and cause me pain, and destroy me a little bit more, just in a different way. That’s all you can do.”

Of all the things he needed to say, the only one that Sherlock could think of was ‘Don’t leave me’, so he stayed silent.

Or, he meant to, but what happened was that he reached out to touch John’s face. “I don’t know how to stop him, John. He’s the worst kind of vampire and I don’t know how to stop him without him hurting you. And if I try, he'll do it.”

John just shook his head, eyes bright with anguish. “For God’s sake, Sherlock. Tell me.”

“His name is Milverton,” Sherlock said without realising he was going to; and the telling was surprisingly easier than he’d expected - certainly easier than keeping the secret had been all this week, “He’s a blackmailer. In the last ten years, I can trace three murders and fourteen suicides to him, John. _Fourteen_. Careers ruined, lives blighted, families torn apart. And these are just the ones who defied him. How many have paid that I’ll never track? He destroys people, John, and now he’s sworn to destroy us, if I don’t drop the case.”

“No he won’t. He can’t touch us, Sherlock. You know he can’t. I’ve told you. There’s nothing I could learn about you that would make me leave. Not ever.”

“He’s got nothing on me directly,” Sherlock conceded, “Nothing I give a damn about. The drug use is a matter of public record. There’s nothing else that matters. Certainly nothing that would matter to you.”

“And I’ve hardly led an exemplary life,” John said, with a small smile, hands on Sherlock’s face again, caressing his cheek, “But you already know the worst of me. Even if he knows about the cabbie…”

“He can’t know,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek into John’s warm hand. “But if he does, you could be arrested for murder. And even if that charge won’t stick, there are other ways to us, John. Other people. Mrs Hudson. Harry.”

“I wondered where she came into it.”

“Those are just the names he mentioned when he threatened me. Said he would destroy our reputations at the very least. I wouldn’t care for myself, but John...”

“There’s always the beekeeping in Sussex, sweetheart,” John said, kissing his brow, “We’ll be okay, you and me.”

“And if he attacks Mrs Hudson? Harry? I don’t know where he keeps the evidence. I have to find and destroy that first, if I’m to keep them and you safe.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Find the evidence and destroy it. You and me. Together.”

“It could get ugly, John. Very ugly. He won’t hesitate to harm the people who matter to us if I try to stop him.”

“Then we’d better work fast and be smarter than he is,” said John firmly.

Sherlock stared at his husband. “Yes,” he agreed at last, a little breathlessly, “We had better.”

“Anything you need of me, sweetheart, you have it. Anything.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and frowned. Because he had gone through and discarded a dozen scenarios and the logic tree kept coming back to one particular outcome, if he wanted to end that snake’s career once and for all.

Milverton’s death.

“He is so dangerous, John. You have no idea.”

John regarded Sherlock gravely. “I will protect you,” he said, “Whatever it takes. And I know you’ll do as much for me.”

“Yes.”

“So. I guess we start with you telling me everything you’ve got so far.”

Sherlock pressed his hands over John’s, to hold them to his skin, still. “I’m sorry, John, about the… the sex… offer. I… wanted to… do something good for you, to make up for the secrecy.”

John shook his head, but he wasn’t angry any more. “Sometimes you get things so arse-about.” He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, then his mouth. “You get that, right?”

“Yes,” breathed Sherlock, and he turned his head to kiss John’s wrists and palms, “I’m writing a note on all the walls of the mind palace.”

“Oh?” John smiled faintly, as he tugged Sherlock into a hug, “What’s it say?”

“Sherlock Watson-Holmes has no secrets from John Holmes-Watson.”

“That’s right, honeybee.” He pushed his hands through Sherlock’s hair, and kissed him again. “Even when I don’t know exactly what they are. I know when you’re keeping them. About us, anyway.”

“You do have a certain genius in these matters,” said Sherlock, a little wonderingly.

“I do. And that’s going to be our secret weapon from now on,” said John, “No more secrets between us. We can’t be used against each other, that way.”

Sherlock caught John’s hand up in his and kissed the knuckles. “You know, John, in all the other relationships I had – well, the few I had – it was always the sex issue that messed it up. They never cared about the secrets.”

“Because they never really cared about you, sweetheart.”

Sherlock’s smile was tender, and he said, “If Milverton does anything to harm you, I’ll kill him.”

“And I’ve got your back too, baby. Don’t you ever doubt it. So let’s sit down; you can tell me all about this son of a bitch and we can work out what to do about him.”

Sherlock was still, frankly, terrified, as he had been all week - he'd come up against wall after wall trying to work out how to stop Milverton. But for the first time in a week, he also felt strong. He nodded, he talked, and they began to plan.

 


End file.
